Torn Hearts, Worn Smiles
by Gosangoku
Summary: A collection of stories for the summer camp event. - USUK
1. painting of a hero

p a i n t i n g  
>o f<br>a  
><strong>h e r o<strong>—

**x.**

_as you get older, it is harder to have heroes…  
>but it is sort of necessary.<em>

— ernest hemingway

**x.**

In this tormented city composed of twisted individuals with tainted minds, being an artist made it all the more grey.

Strewn across his apartment were torn apart canvases, all the paint greyscale or sepia toned coffee paintings. Stray cups and brushes were littered across the wooden floorboards, stains of paint smearing it and flooding it with dreary colours that reflected both the troubled city and his stained heart. Nothing he created seemed to be worthwhile anymore. Whenever he picked up a brush or a pen, he felt just as hopeless as he did without. He had lost his inspiration, and he felt lost himself.

Spindly fingers tapped against a table without rhythm as crackling music played in the remote little café. Rain cascaded heavily upon the thin glass windows and the man isolated near the back of the café sighed, the sound desolate but almost inaudible. He recalled once having adored the rain, donning little wellington boots and a canary yellow coat and chasing his faeries through forest past, discovering secret places hidden by vines and rose bushes and rabbits scurrying around amidst the shrubbery.

He vaguely remembered the faceless images of his imaginary friends that had long since vanished along with his innocence, their happy smiles that greeted his tears whenever other children picked on him. The silhouettes of ghosts visible only to him remained only in his memories of days when he had not been so jaded and on a few paintings that were hidden beneath his bed along with sketches of friends and lovers long gone.

The bells chimed as the door to the café opened, the sound slicing through his thoughts and interrupting his reverie. His eyes flickered up to linger on a man with a hunched figure and his hands stuck in his deep pockets with loose stitching, gazing wordlessly as the man approached the till. He glanced around for a moment before leaning forwards, scrambling over the side frantically, and the spectator belatedly realised what he was doing.

"I think you should put that money back," the artist said lowly, rising from his chair but remaining where he stood so as not to be threatening. The boy whirled around, eyes widening in horror as he saw him and he sputtered, reeling back and colliding with the wall. "Don't panic," the man murmured soothingly but imperiously. He had vast experience in the department of thievery, but he wasn't entirely sure how to handle it. This kid seemed so edgy and frightened and he never knew what to do about anxious people. When he'd been stealing and fighting, he'd never been a ball of nerves; he hardly let himself think, always numb from _something_ so that he wouldn't back out. "Just put it back. I won't call the police, all right?"

The boy stared at him, chest heaving from shock as he frowned in bewilderment. He watched him for a moment before sidling over to the desk and shakily depositing the money on it. He licked his lips and backed away again, looking ready to make a run for it, and gasped when the man approached. He flinched, ready for god knows what, but blinked his eyes open when his hand was lifted and money was pressed into it.

"I don't have a lot," the blond man muttered, frowning at the ground, "but just use this for whatever you need." There was silence for a prolonged moment and he finally looked up to glare at the petrified looking boy. Growling, he snapped, "Get out of here!"

The boy inhaled sharply and staggered back before dashing out of the café, disappearing immediately into the torrents of rain that drowned the city.

He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair as he gazed out into the downpour and tried not to muse over what that kid's story was. He didn't want to imagine him living on the streets or being involved with gangs or some troublesome shit like that. He seemed so frightened, not to mention amateurish at crime. At least when he had been involved with questionable people, he'd not been as susceptible to fear. Or at least, he was able to repress it. When you have no one, you've got to be your own saviour. Sometimes, he couldn't help but think that all the good guys were fucking annoys as martyrs because they all got themselves killed one way or another.

The only difference between martyrdom and suicide is a press coverage indeed.

"Why'd you let him go?"

He twisted on his heel to stare in disbelief at the new arrival, surprised that he hadn't heard him approach. Had he been that distracted? He needed to keep his guard up… "He didn't take anything," he muttered, brushing past the man to return to his table, pulling on his beige Burberry coat and stuffing his empty wallet into the back pocket of his thin corduroy trousers. He was prepared to depart from the isolated café but his arm was caught by the obstinate man, and he turned to scowl into the blue eyes that weren't at all reminiscent of the grey skies in this place.

"He would've if you weren't here," he said, looking more pleasantly surprised than accusatory.

Still defensive and suspicious but less guarded than before, he shrugged the man off. "Well, I was here," he replied, and then walked away, leaving behind a cold cup of tea and a half eaten scone.

As soon as he stepped out into the rain, the droplets encased him in a lasting tempest that left him soaked and frozen. He shuddered and folded his arms tightly across his chest, although that did nothing to conserve warmth. Perhaps he should have remained at the café for as long as possible since his apartment was hardly comfortable. There was a constant draft and the windows were weak. He'd already had them fixed twice and he didn't fancy paying money he didn't have to get them done again if a storm destroyed them.

"Don't you have an umbrella?"

He looked up to find a transparent umbrella being held over his head, the droplets of rain falling from it, and then he frowned into the blue eyes of the annoying man from moments prior. "Oh, I do," he replied dryly, "I just fancy getting wet."

The other man rolled his eyes at the sarcastic remark but wisely chose not to respond. "What's your name then, stranger?" he asked with a lopsided grin. "Mine's Alfred."

"Mine," the artist replied, "is none of your bleeding business."

The idiot—Alfred—blinked in surprise before scratching his neck sheepishly. "Well, gee," he said, "it'd be pretty damn awkward if I didn't know my sidekick's name, y'know?"

He was sent a vacant stare in response. "Is that meant to be a pick up line?" he muttered dubiously, looking very unimpressed. "Sorry, I'm not looking for a relationship."

Alfred gaped at him, eyes widening as he stared at him in astonishment. His cheeks pinked and he looked about ready to spontaneously combust. It was rather… cute. In an irritating way. After a moment, he regained his composure and gazed back at Arthur with a crooked smirk and half-lidded eyes. "So," he murmured, leaning closer beneath the umbrella, "you wanna be my Lois Lane, huh?"

For that remark, Alfred F. Jones received a black eye and Arthur Kirkland's number.

**x.**

_Thunder echoed ominously in the sky and lightning illuminated the place, stretching the shadows and forming silhouettes of monsters, the strong wind sounding as if voices of ghosts were being carried with it. A pale figure hunched in the bushes held his scraped knees to his chest and he gritted his teeth, eyes clenched shut as tears escaped, masked by the seemingly everlasting rain._

_He would never have friends. He'd always be alone, and he should never have doubted it. When he had actually thought someone cared for him, cared enough to want to be with him… they let him down. They threw away the gift he'd given, a painting he'd worked on for weeks, and they might as well have trampled all over his hopeless little heart._

"_You honestly think I'd want to be friends with a freak like you?" the boy had muttered with a bitter smile and demons in his eyes from his own past Arthur knew nothing of._

"… _Yes," he whispered into the darkness as he glared at the sky, "I did…"_

The phone's shrill ring echoed in the nearly empty apartment, the sound resounding from the bare walls splattered with paint, and green eyes fluttered open. A sigh escaped his lips as he lifted himself from the floor, coughing against his palm, and picked up the phone.

"Arthur Kirkland," he answered tiredly, rubbing his eyes and repressing another cough.

"Hey, Artie!" the obnoxious voice of one Alfred Jones greeted happily. He resisted the urge to groan, collapsing back against the floor and staring up at the blurry ceiling.

"My name is Arthur, you incompetent twat," he mumbled, voice lacking the malice it usually held. "What do you want? It's too early to deal with you."

"It's twelve in the afternoon, _Arthur_," Alfred replied, sounding amused and incredulous. "You usually get up at six in the morning. What's up?"

"It is…?" Arthur lifted his arm, grimacing as he realised he must have just passed out on the floor last night after returning from a night of drowning his sorrows in alcohol and painting. "Fuck," he muttered, massaging his temples and shutting his eyes again.

"Hey, don't worry about it," Alfred said smoothly, voice oddly soothing now that it had dropped a few octaves. His exuberance faded into a more serious mood, sounding slightly concerned. "You don't sound so hot."

"I'm fine."

"You always say that."

"It's true."

"You always say that too," Alfred mumbled, "but you always look tired."

"I know you get sleepless nights too," Arthur muttered accusingly. "Don't think I don't notice when you turn up to the café with bags under your eyes. I don't say anything because you just get pissed off when I nag you, but I see it. And until you're willing to stop lying to me, I'll tell you I'm fine." He knew he was being stubborn, but both of them were. It was a flaw that made them clash and a trait that brought them together.

"Jesus _Christ_, Arthur," Alfred hissed with a sigh. "Why d'you have to make everything so much more complicated than it needs to be?"

"You go on about us being friends," Arthur said, "and then you brush everything off and think a cup off coffee and a fake smile will make me forget how fucking hopeless you look."

"For _fuck_ sake!" Alfred exclaimed, sounding angry now, voice rising in volume but lowering in pitch. He always sounded so threatening and demanding whenever he did that. God, Arthur wished he wouldn't use that voice when they were being serious. "First of all, have you ever considered that I might not wanna worry you? You always seem pretty sick of life too!"

Arthur paused, surprised by Alfred's oddly observant words, and his lips parted but no sound escaped. He gripped the phone tighter.

"Secondly, I have _never _faked a smile around you," he muttered lowly, baritone voice rumbling in the static of the phones. Arthur scarcely heard the cars in the background noise, now focused on the erratic breaths that escaped his friend's mouth as he ranted. "Even if I'm tired, I always like t' see you. Why d'you think I go outta my way to meet up with you so often if I was only pretending to enjoy myself? Fuck, Arthur," he shouted, "Have you ever considered that I might actually care about you?"

He gasped at the sound of a bell infiltrating his preoccupied mind, lifting himself off of the floor and turning to stare at the door with a grey X marked on it. He exhaled slowly and stood up, a bit shaky on his legs, and drifted over to the door in a blind trance. Briefly, he toyed with the concept of this being an entirely too realistic and masochistic dream, and then the lock clicked and the door opened and he was met with a steely blue glare.

Alfred snapped his phone closed and pitched forward, enveloping the shell shocked Arthur into a tight embrace, cradling his head and entangling his fingers in his messy hair. "And you call me oblivious," Alfred said, voice muffled in Arthur's hair. "I really do care about you, Arthur."

The phone slipped from Arthur's grasp and clattered to the floor, but he didn't spare it a second thought as he slowly, tentatively wrapped his arms around Alfred and hid his own face in the American's shoulder.

_I care about you too… Alfred._

**x.**

"Why is it," Arthur murmured, looking up at the sky from the swing he was seated on, already dripping wet as rain fell and danced across the ground, "that we always meet when it rains?"

"I dunno," Alfred confessed with a nonchalant shrug, eyes drifting from the tempestuous sky to Arthur's form, and his features softened into a fond smile. "I guess we're just helping each other make it through the storms, huh?"

Arthur turned to look at Alfred when he said that, cheeks flushing a delicate shade of pink when he noticed the gentle gaze settled on him. He hummed, averting his eyes to stare at his knees, wet hair falling to hide his red face. "I'll always stay with you during a storm," he mumbled, gripping the chains of the swing tightly, eyes widening when he felt something brush his cheek, turning in his astonishment only for his and Alfred's lips to meet.

It was chaste but somehow lingering, lasting a few seconds, but they were barely touching. Alfred sighed into the kiss and then smiled, pressing their foreheads together. "And I'll definitely lift us out of it," he promised, gazing into the eyes that reminded him of warm spring days and blossoming flowers, his own fluttering shut as Arthur leaned towards him and kissed him again.

Somehow, the world didn't seem so grey anymore.

**x.**

His toes curled into the newspapers and his fingertips dug into the sun-kissed skin of his lover's back as he took him in, back arching as he felt warm hands drift over his ribcage and hover teasingly over where he wished to be touched the most. Gasps and groans and grunts and moans escaped his abused lips as he bucked his hips and hissed Alfred's name, demanding and ordering, _faster, harder, that way, kiss me, Alfred—!_

He spilled over the newspaper beneath them, words marred by ribbons of white and droplets of sweat, and he leaned up, snaking his arms around Alfred's neck to kiss him deeply. Their lips clashed and he nipped at his beau's teasingly before Alfred grew weary of the tantalising sensations, choosing instead to engage Arthur's tongue in a heated dance as the paper beneath them cracked and their breaths fell in sync.

"You know," Alfred breathed against Arthur's neck when they finally collapsed, "it's kinda amazing making love surrounded by your paintings." He pressed a kiss against a prominent love bite, delighting in the sound Arthur made. "Maybe you should paint one of us."

"And you call _me_ oblivious," Arthur teased with a small smirk, fondness shining clearly in his eyes. "I drew you the day we first met," he admitted, intertwining their fingers and shutting his eyes. "I drew us the day you smiled at me so familiarly."

Alfred smiled against his neck and pulled him into a loose embrace. "And whenever I smile at you," he said, "it's from the heart."

**x.**

**I know this is rather short for the idea of it, but it's supposed to be snippets from different times in their relationship. The first is their meeting, the second is when their friendship is deepened, and the third is when they become a couple. :) The fourth… well, it's rather obvious, I should hope.**

**This is for the USUK community's summer camp thing, and the theme for the first day is **_**hero**_**. I was torn between having them help each other out in war and having Alfred as an actual superhero… but somehow, it turned into this ambiguous and short little thing. It may not be obvious, but they're just… "regular" heroes, I suppose. They're anything but ordinary, but unnoticed as heroes by anyone but each other.**

**I might consider delving deeper into this plot and developing it more, but we'll see. I didn't expand much on Arthur's questionable past, nor did I explain why they were at the shop at the offset, so I might one day write about that… I will think about it.**

**I hope you enjoyed this odd fic. c: Thank you for reading.**


	2. shields and barriers

(_the line between_)

**s h i e l d s**

(_and_)**  
>b a r r i e r s<strong>

**x.**

_weep for yourself, my man;  
>you'll never be who you were at the start.<em>

mumford and sons

**x.**

**summary **— they tear each other down and put each other back together again  
>the wounds will fade and turn to scars but the memories won't ever depart.<p>

**x.**

"Be more careful, Alfred."

The addressed boy pouted at the words, sniffing and fighting back tears even as his eyes stung and his knee hurt terribly. He shifted in his seat and glowered down at the man who was cleaning his wound, folding his arms. "Heroes have no time to be careful when they're saving someone!" he snapped defensively, quickly rubbing his leaking nose before Arthur could see. He froze when warm lips brushed over his forehead and stared at Arthur in shock as he rose, smiling gently at him.

"How can a hero save someone if they don't look after themselves?"

Alfred's eyes widened and the stinging in his knee ebbed as Arthur's words echoed in his mind. He stared at the man for a prolonged moment, a frown slowly coming to his features as he tried to think of a response to fight back. Finally, he looked down, voice sounding weak even to him as he said, "But heroes… are just meant to help other people. They exist to save _others_."

A small sigh escaped Arthur and he leaned against the table, an exasperated but patient smile tugging at his lips. "They exist," he said softly, "because of their will to save others and to be strong for themselves." He ruffled Alfred's hair and chuckled at his objections. "Don't be a martyr, Alfred," he murmured, "because I wouldn't want to be left alone, even if you did something to protect me. All right?"

Alfred frowned, looking troubled still, and finally met Arthur's gaze. "If you promise to stop being hurt when you come home."

Arthur was silent, astonishment etched clearly onto his features before his expression fell into a pained but defensive scowl. "I have little choice in the matter, Alfred," he said sternly. "I am an adult and a country. I must make sacrifices to ensure you and my other colonies remain safe."

Alfred flinched, those words hurting a lot more than his knee. He stood abruptly, knocking his chair back and glaring furiously at Arthur. "You only want to keep me safe because I'm your colony?" He clenched his fists, unrepentant when Arthur seemed hurt by the accusation. "I'd rather be a martyr than a villain!" he shouted, shoving past a stunned Arthur to escape from the house, running on his aching legs and ignoring Arthur's calls for him.

Arthur always patched him up, but he always tore him down too.

**x.**

Erratic breathing left his bloodied lips as he fell to the hard ground, inhaling readily and brushing his hair out of his face, grimacing at the feeling of sweat coating his skin. "Can we take a break now?" he gasped, glowering up as the boots of his ally appeared in his vision. Arthur's acidic green eyes bore down into his, highlighted by the sun glaring down at them from above.

"German soldiers wouldn't give you a break," Arthur muttered, practically spitting the words like venom. Despite his harshness, he extracted a box from his bag and knelt beside Alfred, permanent glare etched onto his features as he extracted a bottle of iodine. "This will hurt," he warned, barely waiting a moment before pressing the cloth against the prominent cut on Alfred's arm. He scoffed when the American made a strangled sound, shaking his head and muttering, "Grow up," before removing it and tying a clean bandage around it.

"You can be pretty confusing, you know?" Alfred mumbled, rubbing his arm with a wince before regarding Arthur with a frown. "You rough me up and force me to train even when I'm about to collapse," he said, "and then you patch me up straight after… even if that's kind of painful too."

Arthur averted his gaze, scowling at the ground and blaming the heat for the flush dusted across his cheeks. "I can only push you while you're conscious," he snapped, "so as if I'll let you use passing out as an excuse to stop."

Alfred stared at him for a moment, glaring at the back of the man's head, before shaking his own and rolling his eyes. Falling back and folding his arms behind his head to form a makeshift pillow, he sighed in annoyance. "I don't understand you at all," he confessed.

"I wouldn't want you to."

But although Arthur roughed him up a lot, he always put him together again.

x.

_Amidst spirals of smoke and dilapidated buildings, silent footsteps echoed within the darkness. Ripples drifted around him whenever he walked on, but he grew weary with every step. He felt his heart growing heavier with each ticking of the clock, with every second of time wasted, with every detriment to hope that he had been secretly clinging to that was washed away by the everlasting bleakness surrounding him._

_He could vaguely hear the distant sounds of voices, of indecipherable words that couldn't reach him and of far-away screams. He felt his heart ache at the pain of his people, and he felt the agony of his homeland being torn apart by war. He was so tired. The days when he readily stood to fight his enemies had not passed, but were fading; he persisted in fighting, spurred mostly by pride and a lingering protectiveness that refused to dissipate._

_But he was tired. He sometimes contemplated over being human, considering how easy it would be to die without the curse of immortality. He grew weary of his terrible afflictions physically mending, his pallid flesh moulding together to form a scar that would ignite memories he would prefer to forget. He didn't want to remember this either. He didn't wish to have recollections of training soldiers and watching them die, of pushing Alfred to his limit to ensure he would be well protected, of blowing the heads of off innocent people who shouldn't be involved in this fucking war full of tainted humans and contaminated countries._

_He didn't wish to remember. He didn't want the scars._

His eyes fluttered open to the feeling of reproachful fleeting touches drifting over his body, grimacing as the pain returned in a tidal wave and washed over his body, leaving him quivering for a moment. He clenched his fists, gripping whatever he could tightly as possible to prevent any telltale sounds of pain escaping his lips. The hands on his torso froze for a moment and he stilled as well, biting his lip to repress the feelings but fighting to speak.

"It's only me, Arthur," someone said, voice quiet and full of feelings he couldn't presently decipher. "It's Alfred," he specified, sounding less uncertain but still just as lost. "Don't get your—"

"If you tell me not to get my knickers in a twist," Arthur bit out, brows knitting together and sweat forming on his brow as he glared up furiously at the blurred silhouette of Alfred—of his ally. "I will break your jaw."

Alfred cracked a small smile, crooked and broken and not quite meeting his eyes. He chuckled, tightening the bandages on Arthur's chest, apologies in the form of sighs and careful touches after Arthur's back arched painfully. "Even in this state," he murmured softly, "you're still argumentative."

Arthur regarded him for a prolonged moment, something flickering in his smouldering green eyes before he finally averted his gaze. _It makes a good shield_, he thought, but wouldn't dare let those words become verbalised. He sighed, sounding frustrated, and he muttered, "I may not in one hundred percent health, but that doesn't mean I can't fight back."

Silence reigned for a while, filled only by Arthur's heavy breathing and Alfred's grunts as he toyed with the bandages winding around Arthur's broken body. The screams from his dreams echoed in his head and he fought to keep his eyes open, absently staring at Alfred's concentrated face to anchor him back to earth. He didn't want to think about sinking, about suffocating and drowning in his subconscious's fixation on masochism; he didn't wish to see the mangled bodies of his people littering the streets, didn't want to know how many innocent people had died because of him and his involvement in this fucking war.

Alfred sighed as he at last finished tying the bandages, a ghost of a grimace lingering on his face as he realised how the off-white blended with Arthur's pale skin and how he could clearly see Arthur's collarbone protruding from his flesh, ribs visible beneath the bandages and thin wrists cracking as his spindly fingers gripped the sheets. He mentally cursed the rationing, hating how _small_ Arthur looked. He wasn't one to mess with, he knew that, but he was also aware of just how easy it could be to break this man. The man who he once looked up at, having to gaze at the sky if he was to look at him, the man who returned from unknown battles in far off lands drenched in blood with more monsters in his eyes.

His gaze finally lifted from his thin frame to the man's gaunt face, blinking in surprise when he was met by dazed green eyes looking straight back at him. "Finished," he breathed, licking his dry lips as thousands of thoughts twisted and strung together in his head like a dozen notes on a composition.

It looked almost as if Arthur was fighting to say something, trying to cast away his barriers and shields that he had spent so long building up, battling the demons that held him back from honesty, and then he looked away. "Thank you," he whispered, sounding horribly defeated and weary.

Alfred's shoulders slumped, but he sent Arthur an understanding smile. He had no idea how Arthur thought or felt about things, couldn't comprehend the man's reactions and never reached conclusions on how Arthur justified his actions. But neither could he, really. He couldn't articulate himself properly at all. Sure, he could be charismatic, but when it came to emotional matters he fell short completely.

But perhaps they didn't need to understand everything, he thought as he reached to touch Arthur's hand. Arthur looked at him again, surprised and confused and tired, and he entangled their fingers together in a loose grasp. Arthur stared at him for a long moment, at a loss, before he sighed, closing his eyes and squeezing their intertwined hands.

Their wounds would scar in time and there would be only memories left. Even if they couldn't abandon the memories, they could at least use them to get stronger.

And they'd be beside one another every step of the way.


	3. tapestry of unity

**t a p e s t r y**

**o f**

**u n i t y**

Fireworks flew up to the sky and exploded in a myriad of vivid colours, decorating the darkening heavens with dazzling flames that blended in with the shimmering stars. Superficially, it was perfect – it was a grand celebration and so many people had gathered for it, bright smiles etched on their faces and laughter filling the place… but it didn't fill the slight void Alfred felt lingering in the pit of his stomach.

He had been ready for this a couple of months prior, going so far as to prepare the celebration weeks ago. He had used some fireworks to commemorate Matthew's big day, but there was the vague reminder of his birthday loitering in the back of his mind even during that day. He was excited, although not quite as animated about it as he used to be. The realisation worried him slightly, wondering if he'd grow to become jaded and cease caring about commemorative festivities.

It wasn't that though, he had eventually concluded as he had set the tables earlier that day. His gaze travelled to stare out the window that morning, up at that wide expanse of azure, and he realised…

He wanted Arthur there.

Even now, with a content smile on his face and warmth settling in his heart as his friends sent him grins and gifts, his thoughts drifted off to wonder about the cynical old man who was probably off getting drunk right now. The thought sort of… hurt him a bit. He hated that Arthur got so sick during this time of year, that he became so damn depressed on a day that made Alfred so happy…

The memories of the revolution hadn't faded over time; nor had the feelings dulled. He recalled the immense guilt and devastation as he met Arthur on the battlefield, the almost unbearable agony that rippled through his entire being as his former guardian dropped his weapon and crashed to the ground before him, on his knees… so unlike the empire he was. It had been painful to leave someone he had loved—and still loved—so much, but… it would have been more painful if he had stayed bound behind that invisible cage. He craved freedom, needed it… and had acquired it. He would never be sorry for gaining his independence. He would never regret it.

But… part of him just wished for Arthur. His irrevocable and unconditional love he'd had for the man as a child had not ebbed, but evolved; he knew Arthur still thought him childish at times, but after the transition of their relationship from friendship to much more following the second World War… he'd sort of hoped that Arthur would stop seeing the fourth as the day he had lost his brother and just think of it as his lover's birthday.

He realised it couldn't be easy for Arthur. Boy, did he understand how difficult it was to move on from things. Sometimes, he still heard the voice of _someone_ in the back of his mind, whispering cruel and evil things, telling him to hurt others, hurt himself because he was the one to blame for all that went wrong in the world… but it wasn't _him_. It wasn't. The Civil War had divided his country, but it wasn't his fault. He couldn't dwell on the past when he wasn't living in it, and Arthur had to learn that too.

Time heals all wounds but always leaves a scar… but scars were triggers only for memories. Sometimes, they might fall into nostalgia and reminisce of dark times, but it wasn't those terrible days anymore. The future may hold more hardships, but they could overcome them together. And although some scars might not ever fade, they would at least have each other to hold onto when they felt those dangerous ghosts creeping up on them.

"Alfred, are you okay?"

His eyes flickered up to meet concerned violet ones staring back at him, a prominent frown on his brother's features as his entire being resonated concern. Alfred couldn't hold back a smile, always touched by Matthew's worry for him. They got annoyed at one another a lot and had had a prank war going on for nearly fifty years, but they were always there for each other if something was wrong. As much as they could be, at least.

"I'm fine, Matt," he replied in an uncharacteristically soft voice, only serving to amplify Matthew's worry.

His frown deepened and he held Kumajirou tighter, sighing against his head. "You want Arthur here," he finally settled on.

Alfred bristled, at first, before his brother gave him a weak smile. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair. "He went to your party," he mumbled, feeling immature for sounding so morose about it. He scowled when Matthew chuckled.

"Mm…" he agreed, glancing off to the side with a small smile on his face. "He cares about you a lot, Alfred."

Alfred flushed slightly, fidgeting in his seat and frowning. "I know that," he murmured, rubbing his arm. "I just wish he cared enough to abandon his goddamn pride and wish me a happy birthday."

Matthew raised a brow. "I think Arthur has far too much pride to do anything he doesn't want to," he reasoned, but there was something in his voice that made Alfred pause. "I'm sure he'll come around eventually, Alfred."

Another sigh escaped Alfred's mouth before a begrudging smile made its way to his lips. "I guess so," he said. He should have more faith in Arthur, shouldn't he? Although the stubborn man was so pessimistic and often found reasons to bring Alfred down, he never let him stay down. Whether it was patching him up when he fell over as a child or training him during World War I or holding him after unforgettable events… Arthur always brought him back up if he let him down. "Yeah," he finally murmured, smiling slightly with fondness shining in his eyes. "You're right."

"I know," Matthew replied after a moment, always caught off guard by the intensity of Alfred's affection, but eventually smiled back. "You should listen to me more."

Alfred rolled his eyes and leaned across the table to roughly ruffle his hair. "Don't let your ego grow as big as mine," he warned teasingly.

"I doubt that could ever happen," Matthew replied with a challenging smirk. "But while my ego isn't bigger than yours, my land is…"

"Don't even go there, bro," Alfred insisted with a light-hearted laugh. "Anyway, maybe we should go out and watch the fireworks, huh?"

"Sounds good…" He trailed off as a faint knock sounded at the door, glancing at it before looking back at his brother, who had stilled completely. "I'll meet you out there," he said softly, offering Alfred a small smile although his brother was no longer looking at him. He slipped outside, soon preoccupied by Francis, and silently wished Alfred the best of luck.

Exhaling shakily, Alfred finally felt his breath return to him. He felt light headed as he drifted towards the door, his hand hovering above the knob for a moment before tugging it open hastily, as if now afraid that the person on the other side would vanish—

But he didn't.

There he was, pale skin and forlorn eyes and sombre expression, thick brows drawn together and lower lip caught between his teeth as if he was in pain, clutching onto a bag with trembling spindly fingers.

"Hey, Arthur," Alfred breathed, and green eyes fluttered before meeting his, and innumerable conflicted emotions danced over his expression.

"Ah… Hello, Alfred," Arthur murmured quietly, voice practically a forced whisper, and he looked away again. "I, er… I trust you're well?"

"Yeah, I…" Alfred licked his suddenly dry lips and faltered, unsure of what to do or how to act. It was always this awkward when Arthur showed up, but he didn't want it to be. He didn't want this to be the best they could ever get around this date with awkward shuffling and floods of memories and reproachful reluctance.

"I got you a present," Arthur mumbled, lifting the bag and pushing it insistently towards Alfred, still not meeting his gaze.

He didn't want Arthur to be unable to look at him. He wanted him to smile and earnestly be happy for him on his birthday. He knew Arthur would never be pleased about the reminders of that day in the rain, but… if only because they were lovers now, if only because Alfred was stronger, strong enough to have saved him during the war, strong enough to have loved him after everything…

"Come here," he said suddenly, only catching Arthur's astonished expression before he enveloped the solemn man in a tight embrace, arms winded tightly around the man's tense shoulders and a hand entangling in his bedraggled hair.

It took a while, a prolonged moment in which Alfred began to feel self doubt coil its cold fingers around his heart, but then Arthur carefully responded. He wound his arms around Alfred, loosely at first, before burying his face in his shoulder and clutching the back of his shirt with shaking hands. "Stupid," he mumbled without malice. "I brought you a present and all you do is hug me…"

"You sayin' you want more?" Alfred teased, testing his boundaries now that Arthur was actually hugging him back and not crying or hitting him.

"Don't ruin it," Arthur muttered against his shoulder, muffled but obviously uneven.

Alfred smiled into Arthur's hair and drew soothing circles on his back, feeling that telltale burning sensation in his own eyes. "Thank you for coming," he whispered, smiling through the unshed tears as Arthur pulled away slightly.

"Idiot," he mumbled, brushing at a stray tear that escaped, and leaned up to brush his lips over his lover's, hating how difficult it could be to remain upset at him. He didn't smile when Alfred did, but he stroked the man's cheek before pressing their lips together fully. His heart may have ached with distant memories of guns shooting and battlefields blazing, but he also remembered the smiles they exchanged and how warm Alfred's hands always felt when he returned home. And now, as Alfred touched Arthur's hand and intertwined their fingers, he realised… Alfred was Alfred, whether he was his colony, his family, or his lover… and that was all he wanted.

"I love you, Arthur."

A small sigh escaped his quivering lips, but eventually, he managed to smile back. "I love you too, Alfred…"

**x.**

It was in the morning as sunlight streamed through the curtains and birds sang merrily that Alfred realised he hadn't opened Arthur's gift. Groaning as he sat up in bed, he yawned and glanced down at his partner, a gentle smile appearing on his face as he was met with the sight of a slumbering Arthur. He was curled up, practically in a cocoon of blankets, love bites decorating his jaw and neck and chest, and a ghost of a smile on his face. Alfred's grin brightened and he ran his fingers through the man's messy hair, delighting when Arthur leaned into his touch slightly. He swooped down and pressed a soft kiss on his temple, and then leaned across the bed to grab the bag beside the wall.

He carefully opened it, dragging out the blue tissue paper and putting the bag on the floor again, and tried to quietly unwrap the present. He was greeted with the soft material of a scarf, slightly taken aback by how long it was, and chuckled at the pattern of red and gold. _At least he didn't get me those glasses…_ he thought, glancing back down at his lover and blinking in surprise to see green eyes gazing up at him lovingly. When he caught the man staring, Arthur flushed but didn't look away.

"Do you like it?" he asked, squirming anxiously. "I always thought you'd be a Gryffindor," he reasoned, looking completely serious about it. Alfred fought back the urge to hug him because sometimes Arthur could be too cute. Really, he nagged Alfred about his geeky television shows and films, when Arthur was so serious about Harry Potter. It was… adorable, really.

"I love it, honey," he replied with a blinding grin, leaning down as Arthur moved up, and their lips met again.

A slightly crumpled piece of paper fell in between their laps, ink stains decorating it along with shaky script writing.

_Dearest Alfred,_

_I'm not yet sure if I'll work up the nerve to actually attend your blasted birthday event. Really, you always go overboard with your celebrations._

_It still hurts. Whenever the fourth comes around, I feel that distant sickness, although I'm sure it's psychological. Even if I know that, I can't do much to change it. I'm not sure if I'll ever be entirely… content… on that date. However, I… I think I am ready to try. I remember celebrating your birthday when you were little, and you always ate my food and it made me rather happy, if I'm honest._

_Someday, I hope we can again be that content on your birthday. Although my pride doesn't let me honestly admit anything—hence why I might have drafted this letter a couple of times before—I do… truly care for you, Alfred. I've come to accept that you are no longer a child, even if you do act it sometimes, and so… I am going to try to do this too._

_Happy birthday, Alfred._

_Love,  
>Arthur.<em>

**x.**

**I've gone through my headcanon on this numerous times on Tumblr… It is canon that Arthur gets sick around the fourth of July, and I adhere to that. However, in more modern times, I do believe it would have dwelled, if only slightly. After Arthur trained Alfred during WWI and Alfred helped him significantly in WWII, I think Arthur begrudgingly began to accept that Alfred was grown up now and he could take care of himself. He realised Alfred was no longer a child long ago, but it was just admitting it to himself that took a while.**

**Since I personally believe that they would have formed a relationship soon after WWII, I think Arthur would eventually try to overcome his pride and fear and try to attend Alfred's birthday without being inebriated or running away. These are only my opinions though, so I don't necessarily expect anyone to agree with me. =u=;**

**I'm sorry it's rather short. I had a deadline and didn't write any of this yesterday because I was quite sick… I still am, but I wanted to do this, damn it. :I And besides, I'm not that ill. Plus I just really wanted to write this.**

**Forgive me for having Arthur make Alfred a Gryffindor scarf for his birthday, but come on… Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part II is out soon! I know what happens thanks to the books that I've read perhaps too many times, but aah… it's going to be painful. Hopefully, I'll be able to watch it with my America when she visits me. Aiyaaah, I can't wait.**

**Anyway, thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it!**


	4. flight or fight

Debris fell from the sky like cascading rain, and dust was flying everywhere from previous gunfire. The sky was bathed in grey, thick and condensed, but most of the area was. It was difficult to tell where the horizon was; everything seemed to blend in, blurred together like watery paint on a vertical canvas.

An eerie layer of fog danced over the dilapidated land, wisps of it mingling with the sudden drizzle that began to cascade from the growling skies. In a camouflaged tent lied two men, one frowning upwards as he listened to the rain crash against their shelter; the other was packing supplies with deliberate slowness, prolonging his chore. Perhaps it was to ensure nothing went a miss. Maybe he was searching for reasons not to fill the silence.

"I wish I were flying now," said his companion, and his wiry fingers stilled against the bag. He should have known that the prat couldn't remain silent for very long. It was a miracle he hadn't spoken previously.

Arthur hummed in response, sounding both irritable and uncaring at once. He was in no mood to humour the idiot, let alone engage in a conversation that would no doubt be utterly pointless. Besides, every time they had spoken thus far, it had not ended well at all; when he had marched into Alfred's tent, grabbed him by the collar and demanded what the bloody hell had taken him so long, they'd started arguing and the American troops didn't take his blusterous nature well. He had left with a few more bruises than he had entered with, but he gave as good as he got despite still recovering from a battle he'd rather not remember.

"I wonder how Amelia's doing," Alfred spoke again, and Arthur's grip on the backpack tightened slightly. "She's working on hospitals right now, helping out."

"Admirable," Arthur muttered waspishly, scowl deepening.

"Isn't she?" Alfred breathed, a small sigh escaping him. Arthur heard him shifting and bristled himself, shoulders stiffening as he paused again, refusing to turn around. "She should be at Spadina Military Hospital right now. Trained by the Red Cross," he clarified, sounding so pleased with a warm voice and a fond tone.

Arthur clenched his fists and stood abruptly, kicking the bag to the side and falling onto his makeshift bed, turning away from Alfred and curling up, crossing his arms and glaring furiously at the tent, watching droplets fall down the thin material. Blasted rain. It merely served to amplify the odd weight settling on his heart and tugging at it as his bones rattled and thoughts collided in his mind.

"What's gotten into you?" Alfred asked after a moment, sounding utterly oblivious. What an obnoxious twat he could be, always so bleeding _clueless_ in serious instances, deluding himself with romantic thoughts about a _human_ when it would only end in heartbreak and sounding so confused as to why Arthur was displeased.

… Why was he, actually? The question made him pause even as he opened his mouth to snap at Alfred, and suddenly he wasn't entirely sure. He was tired, tired of this fucking war, tired of the constant dull ache in his bones following the Somme, tired of actually caring and wondering if Francis was all right, tired of listening to Alfred talk about redundant and meaningless things that had nothing to do with this _war_.

Arthur wasn't ignorant. He caught the fleeting looks of despair on Alfred's face, the slight tremors in Alfred's hands as he gripped his weapon, the sharp intakes of breath when he woke up from a nightmare. And he supposed it would be hypocritical of him to lecture Alfred about thinking of something, anything to take his mind off of death and battle; likewise, it would be duplicitous to pretend he wasn't guilty of loving a human. Even if they were nations, they couldn't control their feelings…

"Nothing," he eventually murmured, the word bitter on his tongue, as bitter as his thoughts and the ache in his heart. He curled into himself more, the coil in his stomach intensifying as he clenched his eyes shut, trying to force apathy and finding it as impossible as he always had done. "Nothing at all."

The only sound that filled the silence after his whispers was the rain, cascading atop the tent and making it almost shudder, and soon enough Arthur found himself trembling, telling himself it was merely due to the cold. His eyelids fluttered when he heard Alfred shift again, half tempted to shout at him, half wishing the idiot would come over and talk at him, even if it was about ridiculous things, sentimental or otherwise, if only to stop his thoughts from drowning him.

"If you say so," he said instead, and a sardonic smirk formed on Arthur's cracked lips. Of course. Alfred had never been one to read the atmosphere…

"I do," he whispered, and they didn't exchange words for the rest of the evening.

**x.**

_Wide, horrified eyes of an innocent adolescent soldier stared up at him fearfully, absolute terror evident on his bloodied features. His shaking hands were embedded in soil, and Arthur had watched as the kid had tried to wash the blood of his comrades off of his hands. Corpses littered the area like rain in London or smiles on children._

"_Nein…" he whispered weakly, and Arthur could see the tears in his eyes even amidst all of the heavy rain._

_He lifted his gun…_

_And suddenly, he fell to the floor himself, on his knees in mud that soaked through his uniform like the blood coating his body. His head felt heavy, his body almost bound by invisible chains, but as boots planted in front of him, he raised his head to meet the icy blue eyes of his enemy._

"_Germany," he bit out, sounding just as livid as he did even when stronger. A wolf could still bite after its head was chopped off; Arthur could still fight when he was being torn apart._

"_You have made some tactical errors, England," Ludwig muttered darkly, eyes almost overshadowed by his helmet. He raised his gun, pressing it against Arthur's forehead, and said, "Goodbye."_

He awoke to the sound of crackling thunder, wincing at memories of storms forcing him to hide beneath trees as the faeries vanished for cover and he waited them out alone. But he wasn't alone, he remembered, when he heard the grunts from the bunk on the other side of the tent. Sighing and rubbing the cold sweat from his forehead, he twisted around to see Alfred turning and shifting and clutching his thin pillow between shaking fingers.

"Al—" He paused, swallowing thickly, and banished the memories of when he would wake Alfred from a nightmare and hold him until he fell into a peaceful slumber. Those days had long since passed, and he had to… he had to move on. "America," he muttered, frowning when he didn't wake up, only flinched perceptibly and buried his face into his pillow. Heaving a long suffering sigh, Arthur threw his legs over the side of his cot, shuffling towards Alfred. He reached out to touch his shoulder, pausing as he took in the slight wrinkles beside his eyes from his bright smiles, freckles from exposure to the sun, and heaved a melancholy sigh. "Wake up, America," he insisted, shaking his shoulder. "America, wake u—!"

His arm was grasped tightly and he was pulled down, gasping and grimacing when he was pressed flush against the hard cot. He groaned, prepared to reprimand Alfred for his actions, only to freeze when he opened his eyes to find azure ones gazing back at him. The same eyes he used to see, only… less dependent, but freer, more… grown up. He exhaled shakily, shifting beneath Alfred's grasp and wincing when he felt the tight clasp Alfred had on him, his wrists held together and pinned down and his legs stuck beneath Alfred.

"America, get off!" he snapped, suddenly feeling exposed beneath his former charge. He wanted to lash out, refuse to allow Alfred to get the better of him or reveal his vulnerabilities. He clenched a fist and gritted his teeth, about to bark another furious order, and then—

"You were once… so big…"

That coil inside of him unfurled slightly, breaking a bit, and his fists shook. He wasn't sure if Alfred was saying that on _purpose_, if he _enjoyed_ seeing Arthur stuck underneath him; or if he was simply the most oblivious man Arthur had been acquainted with, too blind to realise that Arthur wasn't two dimensional or utterly evil and those words didn't help to prevent him from snapping at Alfred.

"Get off," he hissed again. "That's an order!"

"Who are you," Alfred murmured lowly, voice suddenly dropping, deeper, deep enough to send odd reverberations down Arthur's spine, "to give me orders… _England_?"

"Insolent _brat_," he forced out, voice hoarse as he glared furiously into intense blues. "For one thing, I have been involved in far more warfare than you have. And, not to be accusatory, but I have also been in this war longer than you have been, _America_," he muttered threateningly, "so I suggest you do not overstep boundaries."

"I am not a child, England!" he snapped, eyes _smouldering_ with rage as he glowered down at Arthur, increasing his grip on the man's pinned hands and almost delighting in the flicker of pain he saw. "There has never been a war of this scale before. You are just as scared as I am."

A mocking smirk came to Arthur's face and he breathed a chuckle. "I am dubious of that, America," he murmured dryly. "How many battles have you been through? How many people have you killed? What could you have possibly done to prepare yourself for a _world_ war?"

Alfred's eyes darkened. His entire demeanour seemed to evolve – the defensive, scared little boy vanished, and suddenly he seemed all too old and knowing. He let go of Arthur's wrists only to clutch them tighter and shove them against the cot, leaning down to press their foreheads together. "Sometimes," he whispered, as if sharing a secret, like when he was little when he told Arthur he had found another star in the sky or a fish in a lake, "I still hear _that_ voice… You know what I speak of, do you not, England? That scar… That disgusting scar going through the middle of me, as if separating me, cutting me in two… Do you remember? It is, I suppose, a legitimate question. You were hardly there…"

"Don't—"

"He tells me to do things, England," Alfred said, smiling, but there was no light in his voice. His lips brushed against Arthur's, hot breath joining Arthur's erratic ones. "Things that you have probably already done… all those times you left me at home. Remember, England?" he demanded, and shoved his lips roughly against Arthur's, teeth colliding painfully, his tongue invading Arthur's mouth and claiming it. His nails dug into the skin of Arthur's arms and he bit harshly on his lip, tasting that bittersweet metallic tang of blood. He sucked at it, biting down again, but was unconnected from the lip lock when he was shoved roughly to the ground, the collision knocking his breath out of him. The haze dispersed slowly, and he flinched, staring up at Arthur in astonishment and balking when he saw the blood on his lips. "A-Arthur—"

"I know," Arthur muttered, brushing his lip with his gloved hand and sighing, eyes drifting from his lap to Alfred and back again. He couldn't bring himself to apologise, perhaps because he wasn't sure if Alfred would forgive him, perhaps because he wouldn't be able to accept Alfred's forgiveness. Perhaps because… "You are right," he murmured, sighing and glowering at nothing. "I am… scared." He hesitated, almost wishing Alfred knew what to say to make it less strained. "I… I have never been one to reveal my feelings to others. It's… difficult. And… you did seem rather unnerved. I didn't wish to worsen it by expressing my own apprehension."

"Oh, Arthur," Alfred breathed, materialising back on the cot, and tentatively but willingly enveloped Arthur into a tight embrace, breathing in deeply and closing his eyes. "I… Honestly, I feel better knowing I am not alone in my fear."

Frowning against Alfred's shoulder and fighting back the defensiveness that told him to push him away, move, get out of this hold… Arthur carefully wrapped his own arms around Alfred, frown deepening when he realised how broad his back was and yet how dauntingly familiar this felt.

"…You are never alone, Alfred."

**x.**

**Today's prompt was **_**military**_**. I was going to have them actually actively involved in combat, but I didn't want that to be too reminiscent of another fic I've done. Instead, they're in a tent waiting for their next move and getting into overly dramatic arguments… as they do.**

**This is meant to be set during WWI, around the December of 1917, although that won't be obvious. England's dream was more of a memory during the Somme. America's dream is unspecified and, while I have my own ideas, it's up to you to determine what it was. It was not perverse, by the way. :I Gosh, people.**

**I've seen a lot of perspectives on England's characterisation from what I've read, ranging from extremes of kawaiimoeblob!England to heartlessruthlessseme!England… neither of which appeal to me, but to each their own. I have found many middle grounds with England being developed as a well rounded character which I find refreshing, although I'm open to interpretations. In any case, the way I perceive him… I don't believe him to be entirely innocent, but nor utterly unfeeling either. He's done plenty of bad things, many of which he doesn't regret, but he does have a heart. I try to show him as a man tainted by time and his own wrongdoings, with walls and shields that are difficult to tear down.**

**If we reference canon, then it's obvious I take it way too seriously. XD But that's why these are headcanons, right? c:**

**Anyway, I'm sure America was downright terrified during WWI… The Civil War wasn't too long before it and the side effects would have been lasting, so I think he'd be paranoid. I think everyone would have been rather unnerved, having never engaged in a war of such a scale that it was described as a **_**world**_** war, even if they had been involved in numerous battles previously.**

**I do believe America was infatuated with Amelia Earhart, perhaps even loved her. The facts implemented in here are true, lest my sources be inaccurate and my findings lacklustre. ;u;' And England's jealous and doesn't even realise it. Really, man, you are so out of touch!**

**I've been mistaken for an England RP blog on Tumblr a few times in the past couple of days, which is rather odd. Perhaps it may be because I sent a couple of messages to America RPers **_**as **_**England on the fourth? I don't know, but now a few people are referring to me with male pronouns and as "Arthur". My URL wouldn't make sense for it to be an England account! It's nonsensical enough as it is. Oh, people. ;u;'**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this~ If you're wondering what I did for the third day, it was for the theme of science, and I actually drew a picture, which is here: http : / gosangoku . deviantart . com /#/ d3krzly**

**Thank you for reading!**


	5. ice cream kisses

_**i c e**_

_**c r e a m**_

_**k i s s e s**_

**x.**

My name's Alfred F. Jones. I'm nineteen years old and my birthday is July the fourth. Coincidentally, that was the date I fell for one Arthur Kirkland years ago.

**x.**

I'd been on my school's football team—and that's _American _football, by the way. Arthur's pretty damn fussy about it—since I was fifteen, a towel boy before then. I was sorta naïve, or at least most people thought so. I knew they were all making fun of me, but I'd kind of hoped that if I just stuck with it and absorbed their insults without lashing out or getting upset, then they'd see me as someone worth accepting.

(_When Arthur had seen me loitering outside the locker rooms with an empty basket and an expectant expression, he had sighed and frowned and said, "Don't get your hopes up, Jones."_)

Long story short, that didn't happen. Maybe I was naïve to ever dare even hope, but with so much cynicism in the world I guess I wanted to balance it with idealism.

(_Arthur always seemed so unhappy, a scowl marring his features almost constantly, always snapping sharp reprimands to students lingering in the halls who were late to class or had their shirts not tucked in, shoving off some touchy-feely French guy and then disappearing for hours. Everyone spread rumours about him, always said he was angry, but to me… he just seemed sad._)

One time, they'd arranged these try outs. They were fake, but of course I didn't know that. They were never planning to let me join the team; they'd only set the entire thing up to humiliate me. And it worked. It hurt and I was ashamed – of them, yeah, but… mostly myself. They sent their best players on the field and told me to try and score, but it was five burly seventeen year olds against a nearly-fifteen-year-old who'd had no previous practice. I ended up with a dislocated shoulder, a black eye, and a fractured ankle. They ended up with sinister smirks and cruel words.

(_I remember hugging myself and crying, as pathetic as that sounds, cliché even. It was almost like some weird movie when Arthur found me, having stayed late after school, and berated me for being an oblivious idiot and going along with it. I cried more and shouted at him, but he took me inside and patched me up and then escorted me home._)

I was tempted to avoid them after that, and did so. It went against the craving for heroics in me, trampled over my morals and ideals, but I was… scared. Scared and hurt. So I evaded attending games, never turned up to collect their dirty clothes, ducked behind trash cans to escape them in the halls. And I started talking to Arthur. He was in the corridors a lot, shouting warnings to rambunctious kids and muttering under his breath about how troublesome they could be, but I realised he took a while before actually passing out sanctions or giving detentions. He wasn't as harsh as people said he was.

The first time I tried to talk to him, it was a complete bust. I planned to swoop in all smooth, only to trip over some guy's foot and fall on Arthur, inadvertently pinning him to the ground. I heard laughter, so much laughter, directed at me, and I blushed and scrambled up and turned away, feeling horrible again. Whenever I tried to make friends, I always screwed it up somehow.

But Arthur just told them to bugger off and get to class, otherwise he'd inform the teachers that instead of making their way to class they were busy laughing at other students' expenses. They glared at him and grumbled obscenities, shuffling away after flipping him off or purposely hitting his shoulder as they passed.

"How do you deal with it?" I demanded when they had all vanished, the hallways empty aside from the two of us and litter scattered across the floor.

He glanced at me, the glower leaving his face, and he just looked weary, older than he really was. "I suppose telling you that you grow accustomed to it would make you rather jaded," he said with a half-hearted shrug, and I hoped he was just joking. "Not to mention, it's a lie. Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words will make you want to do it yourself."

I felt a sudden coldness wash over me, his words making something crack within me. "What are you talkin' about…?" I mumbled nervously, swallowing when he smiled at me, full of nothing and devoid of all feeling.

"Hopefully nothing you'll ever understand, Jones," he murmured softly, and then shook his head. "Get to class, you idiot. You have Chemistry now, don't you? You're good at that, so don't ruin it."

With that, he left, a vague silhouette of grey vanishing in the corridor, and I watched with an outstretched arm and an odd melancholy feeling.

It seemed like he was someone who needed to be saved.

**x.**

"Hey, Arthur," I said one day, smiling and shuffling on the spot, kicking my heels together and slouching heavily.

He lifted his gaze from the papers littering the desk and blinked in surprise when he saw me, tilting his head curiously and raising his brows inquisitively. "Hello, Jones," he murmured, sounding slightly suspicious. I wondered why, but I didn't ask. There was a lot I didn't know about him, but someday I'd find out. "Can I help you?"

"Uh…" I felt my cheeks heat up, squirming uncomfortably under the scrutiny. "Yeah, I guess… I just…"

"Spit it out, Jones."

"I-I—" I stuttered, tripping over my words before they spilt out after seeing his disapproving frown. "I was wondering if you'd wanna go out sometime!" I blurted quickly, so fast I wondered if he'd actually heard me. Part of me hoped he hadn't, but things never go how I want them to.

His eyes fluttered and he suddenly looked lost, almost like a bewildered child without guidance, and I felt butterflies float in my stomach. "Go… out?" he repeated softly.

"Y-yeah," I said, looking down and scuffing my shoes against the carpet. "You… sorta helped me out before and stuff, so I just… thought I'd make it up to you." I grinned toothily, crooked and awkward with a mouth full of braces with blue elastic bands. I'd wanted red and white too, but the orthodontist wasn't prepared to go that far for me.

"Make it up to me," Arthur reiterated again, now sounding unimpressed. The frown had appeared on his face again and I felt my heart jump in my chest. What had I done now? "Jones," he said, the name escaping him like a sigh, "you've nothing to 'make up for'." He dropped his pen and massaged his temple, looking so tired again that I wanted to hold him and make everything better. But I couldn't do that. "If you want to go out with me," he said, flushing slightly, "then prove to me that you're able to."

"How?" I asked, perplexed. Couldn't he just agree?

"If you want to repay the favour of me helping you out," he said, "then confront that team of dicks and show them that you aren't a hapless little boy."

"I'm not—" I began, feeling anger bubble up.

"Prove it then," he interrupted. "How can you help someone else if you can't help yourself, Alfred?"

With a final glare, I swept out of the room, leaving him to his lonely work.

**x.**

I'm not the best story teller. I don't have a vocabulary like Arthur's, so using loads of interesting adjectives isn't my forte. As Arthur said, I'm more of a science man, but that's beside the point.

I did it, eventually. I'd spent a long while sulking about his words, furious that he'd treated me like a kid, before I realised that I was _acting_ like one – avoiding my problems, leaving things left unsaid, and wallowing in misery instead of doing something about it. I _was _acting like a child, and I didn't want to. Not anymore. I was tired of running away or hiding from my problems until they overwhelmed me, resenting people who spoke the truth because I couldn't accept it. I had to grow up sometime, even if I didn't want to.

It didn't go well. Not at first, anyway. I'd like to say I marched up to the team, entered the locker rooms all guns blazing and told them where to stick their fucking position, broke their jaw as compensation… but I didn't. I'd hesitated before going in, hand trembling on the door, and I staggered inside and floundered when they looked at me.

"I'm not someone you can walk all over," I had finally managed to say, feeling sick as I did so. "I might suck at football right now, but maybe that's… kind of your fault. You won't give me a chance, but you were my age once. It's not like you've never felt inferior. I don't think you'd like someone taking advantage of that either. I'd appreciate it if you gave me a chance, but if you don't… then you just aren't worth my time."

They'd been surprised, silent for a few prolonged moments before they laughed at me, threw jibes and insults, and for a while I thought I would vomit. But I stood firm, glaring at them with clenched fists and hunched shoulders.

"I guess that's my answer. Thanks for nothing," I'd said, and I left.

(_A few days later, during which I had admittedly felt disenchanted by the rejection and how nothing went like the movies, the captain of the team had found me in the halls and said, "We'd like to give you a fair try, Jones."_

_And they did. I sucked, but not as bad as I had before. I'd avoided being tackled, even got a couple of points. I didn't win, but I didn't feel like a failure._

_And when they said, "Welcome to the team, Alfred Jones," I felt… new. I didn't feel like the gangly loser, a science nerd who was inept at anything but that, an unattractive geek who'd never be wanted._)

The sudden fame had got to me a bit, honestly. I'd tried to disregard Arthur, unsure of how to confront him after his words weeks ago, so I started going out with a girl whose name never quite stuck in my head. I saw Arthur in the halls, shoulders back and head held high, but that same poignancy in his eyes that I promised to remedy and never did.

I didn't feel like much of a hero.

**x.**

I'd gotten my fair share of detentions after joining the football team, usually acting quite rowdy with some team mates in class. It was after school one day—Sheesh, what am I? A fairytale?—that I'd encountered Arthur, pinned against a wall by a guy on my team. But he didn't look scared.

"Stop cuttin' the team's money, you fucking douche," he said, and Arthur just raised his brows. He didn't struggle and appeared detached about it.

As if it had happened before.

"I shan't hold this against you," Arthur said nonchalantly, "since I'm aware of your inability to do basic maths. It's all right, I'd anticipated that since you so frequently get hit on the head during football—Sorry, _American_ football—but I've been forced to make a lot of cuts, you see, or else there would be little funding for basic necessities in the school."

"Don't get cute with me, Kirkland!" he snapped furiously, shoving Arthur against the wall again, and I bit my lip, swallowing when I saw the other guy draw a fist back.

"Do you think so? I was trying _so_ hard to impress you."

"Shut the fuck up!" he bellowed, launching a blow at Arthur, only to grunt in furious bewilderment when he couldn't. I caught his arm and levelled him with an icy glare, hoping my anxiety wouldn't show.

"Let go of him," I ordered, sounding more confident than I felt. That was how I go into my first proper fight.

It was also the first time I felt like a hero.

Afterwards, Arthur lectured me about getting involved in things I had no business in, shouting insults as he dressed my injuries with feather light touches, his eyes wide and full of worry and guilt.

"—and I hope you realise just how _stupid _you were, starting a fight with that brute of a boy. How tall is he? Six-fucking-foot-three? Alfred, you may be a lot bigger and stronger now than you were, but you aren't six-fucking-foot-three and I shan't have you trying to break the jaw of some—"

"You wanna go out with me?"

He hit me and shouted some more, but after he'd almost deafened me, he enveloped me into a tight embrace and agreed to it, but "only because he wanted to ensure I wouldn't get into any trouble".

Arthur, I realised, had never been a very good liar.

**x.**

"_This_," he hissed darkly, hair falling to cover his eyes, "is your idea of a romantic date?"

I shot him a crooked grin and chuckled sheepishly, fully expecting him to leave. But when he looked at me, his glare dissipated, and he blushed and huffed and stole my fries.

"You can be such a gir—"

"Finish that sentence, Alfred, and I will guarantee that you _never_ lose your virginity."

"…Shutting up now."

"I thought as much."

(_But also he complained _like a girl_, he still demanded I order him another coke, so we sat in McDonald's for a long while, stealing each other's burgers and fries and arguing over what to call 'em, but when I bought him ice-cream, he stopped bickering and just turned away. I knew he was blushing. He was crap at hiding stuff._

_Then he moved to kiss my cheek as I turned to him and our lips locked in a cold vanilla-flavoured kiss._)

**x.**

My name's Alfred F. Jones. I'm twenty seven years old, and my long term lover is Arthur Kirkland.

**x.**

**I cannot write in Alfred's perspective… Bah.**

**Today's prompt: fast food. Obviously, I didn't do that justice either.**

**Can I take your order?**


	6. until the end

**u n t i l  
>t h e<strong>

**e n d—**

**x.**

Arthur had been the man who taught Alfred to dance.

**x.**

"My hand, Alfred," said Arthur one evening, gaze stern and unwavering, and Alfred couldn't help but avert his own. He knew Arthur was injured; he had seen droplets of blood lining the floors to Arthur's room, noticed the bandages wrapped up his arm that he attempted to conceal beneath his sleeve, and wasn't too blind not to detect the slight limp that he also tried to obscure with his long strides that Alfred was beginning to realise weren't as long as they once had been. "Take my hand."

Lifting his stare from the floor to Arthur's pale face, hollow cheeks and tired eyes full of demons and ghosts Alfred knew nothing of, Alfred slumped in defeat. He could not disobey Arthur. He was, after all, the man's colony. The word tasted bitter even if he didn't speak it. He loathed how Arthur pushed him away, put up more shields to hide himself from his own "little brother" than he did to protect himself from enemies. Alfred no longer wished to remain passive, sitting inside and _waiting_ all the time, day-by-day at the windowsill, hoping to see Arthur walking home.

Normally, he was greeted by an empty garden full of grey skies and rain; when Arthur did return, he did not walk – he staggered. He always got back late. It was often night time by then, when the skies were dark and lit candles were being blown out as people disappeared beneath their covers for bed. Perhaps he hoped he would avoid Alfred, evade his prying eyes when he entered the house with more wounds and blood soaking his hands.

Alfred never hugged him when he came home anymore. He remembered when he had stopped embracing the weary man, when he had reached his shoulder and Arthur stared at him blankly, expression devoid of any feeling, and his eyes fluttered as he looked at Alfred, lips parting in silent question, and stilled when Alfred merely turned on his heel and looked away. He didn't catch Arthur's face after he had done so, but he watched as the man who had once marched proudly down the corridors stumble through them, catching himself on walls and leaving smears of blood.

Now, as he stared at Arthur's outstretched hand, he couldn't help but imagine the stains of blood coating them, the crimson dripping from his fingertips, the thoughts and questions running through his mind – _If that blood is Arthur's, then he is wounded once more; if it is not, then he has killed again._

"My _hand_, Alfred," Arthur snapped again.

Alfred took it, loosely at first, as he frowned at Arthur with a somewhat hurt expression, but it vanished and evolved into a look of resentment and annoyance as he tightened his grip, a shudder of pleasure running through him when Arthur winced. "Yes," he answered, voice dripping with false politeness, as he sent Arthur an icy smile. "Teach me, Arthur."

**x.**

"Straighten your tie, Alfred," ordered Arthur, arms crossed as he stared imperiously at Alfred, and the look hadn't lost its imperiousness despite how they were now the same height. Alfred muttered under his breath and loosened his tie, only for Arthur to sigh in frustration and tighten it, relenting when Alfred choked on it slightly.

"I do hate this suit," Alfred complained, fingering the material with a grimace. "I would sooner wear my regular attire, Arthur. Can I not dance in that?"

"Dance in rags?" Arthur repeated incredulously, looking utterly disapproving, but there was a faint glint of recognition and nostalgia in his eyes that evoked a feeling of jealousy within Alfred. What memories did Arthur have that he knew nothing of? "I think not, Alfred. No. Come, you look dashing in that suit. Let us dance."

Alfred's cheeks warmed and he frowned, averting his gaze as he took Arthur's hand, intertwining their fingers and marvelling at how Arthur's hand felt smaller than it used to when he once lifted his arm to grasp at his calloused fingers. Carefully, he put his hand on Arthur's side, face positively burning as he did so, his hands getting uncomfortably warm, and his shoulder began to tingle where Arthur placed his hand. It felt as if a storm of electrical butterflies had erupted within him.

"No dilly dallying, Alfred," Arthur muttered, tone sharp and disapproving as it always was nowadays. Alfred gritted his teeth and gripped Arthur's side.

"_Yes_," he hissed, practically shoving Arthur as he took the first leading step, catching the man and flushing at the scowl, and then trying to continue the dance slowly, more flowing. It was odd, wasn't it? He imagined dancing with a woman, a flowing colourful dress amidst a sea of others, lifting her and twirling her and then pulling her towards him and embracing her… Yet here he was, holding a man, grasping the calloused hand of a man and drifting around the room with him. It looked different from his daydreams and fantasies of rescuing a princess, but… it felt right.

"Should you not wear a dress for an occasion such as this?" he mused dazedly, gazing down at Arthur with faraway eyes. Arthur blinked, eyes wider than Alfred had ever remembered, and his face flared bright red.

"I am no _woman_, Alfred!" he snapped furiously.

Alfred blushed too, embarrassed his thoughts were voiced aloud and heart thumping wildly as he stared down at Arthur's pleasantly flushed face. Arthur had always been a brother to him, a man he looked up to for guidance, and yet here they were, standing face to face, swaying in circles like heroes and their damsels in all the stories Arthur regaled him with.

With a solemn sigh, he continued dancing, gaze momentarily darting to their feet so he wouldn't tread on Arthur's, Alfred realised that never again would he read of heroes without thinking of Arthur.

**x.**

_AMERICA STOP  
>CONTACT ME ASAP STOP<br>FRANCE HAS NOT RESPONDED STOP  
>IT HAS BEEN A WHILE STOP<br>ATTACK ON HAMBURG WENT WELL STOP  
>GERMANY SHOULD HAVE KNOWN I WOULD NOT GO DOWN WITHOUT A FIGHT STOP<br>STAY SAFE FULL STOP_

_ENGLAND STOP  
>APOLOGIES FOR THE DELAY STOP<br>GLAD TO HEAR YOU ARE WELL STOP  
>CHERBOURG WENT WELL ALSO STOP<br>FRANCE IS FINE STOP  
>DON'T TRY TO KICK HIS ASS YET THOUGH STOP<br>MEET UP ASAP FULL STOP_

**x.**

"This war will be the end of me," Arthur muttered, rubbing his forehead and grimacing as he touched bandages. With a groan of frustration, he tried to tear them off, only for a hand to be placed gently above his own.

"_You_ shall be the end of you if you insist on tearing yourself apart," Alfred corrected, patting the man's hand and tugging it down off of his head. Arthur scowled at him before sighing in aggravation and looking away.

"My wounds keep opening," Arthur admitted, to Alfred's surprise. The man never spoke of his injuries, especially not to Alfred. He didn't interrupt. "Not as bad as the Somme though," he added with a derisive snort, eyes darkening. "Even I… am not sure how bad I ended up after that. Hardly mattered though," he said, deflating tiredly and clenching his fists. Absently, Alfred stroked a thumb over his pale flesh. "I completely ruined it, got so many men killed…"

"You are the one who told me you cannot blame yourself," he piped up, smiling slightly when green eyes rose to frown wearily at him. "It sure is easy to, but it makes it harder if you do."

"Please don't start making sense, Alfred," Arthur murmured, voice a breathless sigh. "I've not argued with France in weeks and now you are making sense. I'm concerned."

Alfred rolled his eyes but quirked a smile, positively elated when Arthur's lips twitched just the faintest bit also.

They both jumped in surprise when the crackling of Alfred's record player came to life, a bit fuzzy but still right there, and music filled the room.

"Dance with me," Alfred said suddenly, intense gaze burning into Arthur, and he could only swallow with wide eyes. When he nodded, he blamed it on the blood loss, and when he was dragged up into the middle of the room without protesting, he was convinced he was sick.

"_When this world began, it was heaven's plan… There should be a girl for every single man…_"

"I'm not a woman," he muttered after a brief argument over what dance to do, and they ended up just holding each other and drifting from side to side because _no, Arthur was most assuredly _not_ attempting the Charleston_.

Alfred hid a smile in Arthur's hair. "I know you aren't, Arthur," he whispered, pulling him just a bit closer, chests flush together, and relaxed when he felt Arthur's slightly too fast heartbeat. "I know."

"_Somebody loves me… Maybe it's you._"

**x.**

Jubilant cries of triumph echoed through the streets, in the pubs, houses, and the country thrived with pure happiness and relief and thankfulness. Colourful confetti rained down from the blue sky, the sky that was so beautiful, the sky that was so like Alfred's eyes that were full of life and joy, prosperity and promise, and something so much more that Arthur couldn't quite discern.

"'_Til_ _the end of time, long as stars are in the blue, long as there's a spring of birds to sing, I'll go on loving you…_"

He smiled at a beaming woman who he had just finished dancing with. He told her to go off with another since he wasn't really one for the jitterbug that they were all doing, but now that this slower song had come on…

It didn't matter anyway, did it?

With a content sigh, he collapsed into a seat, drinking back a pint of _something_ so quickly he didn't register the bitter taste that lingered on his tongue.

"'_Til the end of time, long as roses bloom in May, my love for you will grow deeper with every passing day…_"

"Artie!"

"It's Arthur—" he began, lips snapping shut immediately as he saw the idiot's face, soaked with droplets of sweat from his effortless enthusiasm in all of the speedy dances, crooked grin brighter than it had been in so many years—so damn many—and his blue eyes reflecting the stars that shone outside in the sky.

"Sure, that's swell," Alfred said, obviously not quite listening, but Arthur wasn't really listening either. "Let's dance!"

"W-with me—? No, Alfred, find a woman to—"

"I want to dance with you, Arthur!" he insisted, threading their fingers together and pulling him up, grinning when Arthur stumbled against him with wide eyes and red cheeks. He tangled an arm around Arthur's waist and squeezed his hand, proud grin softening into a reserved smile. "We won," he whispered softly, like he couldn't quite believe it. "I told you we'd make it through."

Arthur stared at him, stared up at the boy he'd raised, up at the _man _who was smiling at him like he was the only person in the world at that moment, and he smiled back.

"Yes," he breathed, shutting his eyes and squeezing back, "you did, Alfred."

"_So take my heart in sweet surrender, and tenderly I say that I'm the one you love and live for 'til the end of time…_"

**x.**

Alfred had been the one who kept them dancing.

**x.**

**Today's prompt was music. I missed yesterday's because I wasn't feeling very good, but hopefully you'll forgive me. :) This started out as something else entirely, but people expressed their liking for this idea, so I rolled with it.**

**George Gershwin – **_**Somebody Loves Me**_

**Perry Como – **_**'Til The End of Time**_

**Not going to lie, the latter reminded me of **_**Moulin Rouge!**_**. XD I do believe Alfred and Arthur fit the roles of the two protagonists in that very well though.**

**Thank you for reading!**


	7. jester or knight

**j e s t e r**

**o r**

**k n i g h t**

**x.**

_Then must you strive to be worthy of her love. Be brave and pure, fearless to the strong and humble to the weak; and so, whether this love prosper or no, you will have fitted yourself to be honoured by a maiden's love, which is, in sooth, the highest guerdon which a true knight can hope for._

— Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

**x.**

Alfred had always been an outcast.

He wasn't particularly unpopular or disliked, but he drew negative attention and readily stepped up to steal the roll of class clown. The teachers found him utterly incorrigible and labelled him as hopelessly foolish, and he had eventually begun to live down to their expectations and ceased trying to well in school. He regaled other children with tales of his nonexistent parents, insisting that they were heroes who had saved the world a hundred times over, although those fables were partly to console himself on the lonely nights when he wondered where they were and why they didn't want him.

Many villagers turned their nose up at him, perplexed and irked by the troublesome little boy, but Alfred only ever grinned back and dashed past the irritated people to work on his new mischievous prank.

But in spite of how boastful he acted, Alfred was lonely. Whether alone in his creaking cot and hugging his pillow as if it was another person he could hold onto; whether he was surrounded by the people of the village meandering around and conversing with one another with forced polite smiles and civil tongues, Alfred was lonely. As he grew older, the feeling worsened; there was something of a void growing within him, a dull blackness that seemed to expand minutely like a metaphorical black hole every day. He kept smiling, hoping that his act would convince even himself, but every day his smile grew harder and harder to force.

He fell into the wrong crowd, some would say, but he voluntarily sought after cruel people with reckless ideas to ignite adrenaline within his weary bones and excitement and fear in his jaded mind. He loved when terror reverberated through his body, pulse rushing furiously as his heartbeat accelerated and he felt _alive_.

And so here he was, standing before a myriad of dilapidated forest, the trees swaying forwards as if telling him to turn back. But he couldn't. He couldn't turn back now, not with his faux friends loitering behind him, waiting with malicious smirks for him to step foot into the forbidden forest. Cliché, but true. Even the village elders warned everyone not to enter that place. Alfred once believed it was haunted. Secretly, he still did.

"What are you waiting for, Star?" one murmured tauntingly, their gravely voice forcing Alfred to clench his fists. He hated his nickname. He'd always thought it to be too feminine, or too simple and dull. He'd rather have a name that provoked respect and admiration, not teasing smirks and amused sneers. "You aren't _scared_… are you?"

"No," he answered immediately, but didn't turn around. He didn't want to lose his nerve or let anxiety reveal itself through his treacherous eyes. "Fuck off. Don't distract me," he said, ignoring their laughter. "Catch you later, guys," he muttered amidst the cackles of his peers, and crouched down to crawl through the tangled bushes. He thorns tore at his exposed flesh and he winced, cursing, and trying to shove all of the vines and vivid roses stained blood red out of his way, more daunting than vivacious. All of the plants in this kingdom were blue. He wondered if this forest crossed the borders of Spades and some nomad's land where dangerous wanderers drifted around.

Either way, he couldn't turn back now, even if paranoia was creeping in and he could picture the vines becoming ghostly hands of monsters waiting to slither around his neck and—

He was through. He collapsed to the ground, a drop of five feet catching him off guard. He lied, face buried in high turquoise grass littered with glistening droplets of colourful water. With a grimace as he felt his bones protest, he lifted himself into a kneeling position, glancing up at the bushes in confusion. He hadn't noticed a drop when he had been fighting through the weeds… Then again, he had been distracted by his manipulative imagination.

With a shaky sigh, he stood on trembling legs, biting his lip when he saw the scrapes across his knees. He inhaled deeply and banished the stinging in his eyes, beginning to roam without really knowing where he was going. He stumbled through more tangled bushes and scraped his arms and legs on weeds that seemed to attack him, but eventually staggered onto a faded path covered in flowers he hadn't seen before. A shifting sound caught his attention and he gasped, glancing around fretfully.

"Wh-who's there?" he demanded, cursing himself for stuttering. What if it was the others playing tricks on him? Everyone would know he was scared. "Show yourself, you fucking bastards!"

A breeze fluttered past and the flowers seemed to dance in it for a moment, but the echo of a voice joined the wind: "First, you trespass. Now, you insult me. I would like to ask you to leave this place, young man."

He swallowed thickly, not quite registering the words. "Where are you?" he whispered weakly. "Would you tell me which way I ought to go from here?"

The response was more hesitant now. Instead of telling him how to get out, go home, it said, "That depends a good deal on where you want to get to."

Alfred blinked in confusion before his brow contorted in agitation. "I…" he began, reluctant now. Did he want to return to that village full of judgemental people wearing fake smiles and pretending to care? Did he want to be surrounded by familiar strangers? None of them cared about him, and he didn't much care for them either. "I don't much care where," he blurted out.

"Then it doesn't much matter which way you go," retorted the voice calmly, all of its words emerging more as sighs or whispers than anything.

"So long as I get _somewhere_," Alfred added, not wanting to be hopelessly lost.

"Oh," the voice said with a breathless chuckle. "You're sure to do that, if only you walk long enough."

Alfred shook his head and looked down. "Please show me," he said softly. "I don't want to be alone."

Silence reigned over the forest for a moment, the wind stopping and the flowers ceasing their slow tango, the cascading leaves meeting the floor and disappearing into the ground, and he momentarily feared he had been left alone. Suddenly, wisps of blue smoke drifted through the place, creating a spiral, and he was tempted to reach forwards and touch it. Instead, he staggered back with wide eyes, and then fell backwards when a figure appeared through it. A torn cloak billowed behind them and messy hair fluttered in the wind created by the portal, and a thin man with pointed features and pale skin materialised before him.

"Who… are you?" he whispered weakly, flinching when the person's eyes shot open, but slowly meeting them when the man only gazed tiredly at him. He was scowling, looking angry at first glance, but he had bags beneath his eyes and bandages around his forehead and neck, and his eyes were dazzling with so much more than what his body conveyed.

"I believe I am permitted to enquire as to whom _you_ are, boy," he snapped, folding his arms across his chest and glowering down at the fallen man. "What are you doing in this forest? It is out of bounds."

"Are you a village elder?"

The man's eyes flickered with something, something dark, and then his frown deepened. "I am not from your village. I suggest you go back," he said.

"You asked where I wanted to go," Alfred returned, forcing himself to stand and feeling a bit reassured when he realised that this man was a bit shorter than he; he felt less exposed when leaning over him.

"And you said you don't care," he finished, "so _I suggest_ you return to your village."

"I hate it there."

"You're insufferable." The man sighed in irritation and rubbed his temples, shaking his head.

"Are you a witch?" Alfred asked, eyeing the portal that was beginning to vanish.

"_Mage_," he corrected, flushing slightly. "And I know what your lot thinks of people like me, so kindly leave me to my dark magic until demons from the underworld come to steal my soul. Thank you, don't come again," he muttered monotonously.

Alfred's lips quirked into a small smile. "So you have a sense of humour, at least," he said, undeterred when the man's frown deepened even more. "Would you tell me your name? I'm Alfred."

The mage blinked several times, looking lost for a moment, lips parting in silent inquisition before he lowered his gaze. "My name is Arthur," he replied softly, voice smaller than before, as if he wasn't quite sure how to answer that question.

"It's kinda admirable, y'know," Alfred spoke suddenly, gaze drifting from the flustered mage to the forest, the swaying trees with falling petals that seemed to glow. "How you live here all alone."

"Great perils have this beauty," said Arthur softly, "that they bring light to the fraternity of strangers."

Alfred looked back at Arthur after a moment, pausing as he gazed into faraway depths of emerald, full of things he couldn't understand. "I'm sure," he agreed absently, and both of them blushed darkly when they met each other's eyes. "Could I stay here?" he asked suddenly, hoping to dispel embarrassment with another topic. Arthur's face darkened suddenly and he sighed. "Please," he added quietly, "I hate that place."

"_No_, Alfred," Arthur muttered, shaking his head. "It isn't… a good idea."

"Isn't it safe here?"

"It's not that," Arthur said softly. "The fae will guide all of the forest's inhabitants from danger, but…" He trailed off, looking conflicted, and then shook his head. "I… You just shouldn't be here."

"_Why_?" Alfred demanded, perplexed by Arthur's stubbornness. He seemed almost disturbed by the prospect of Alfred staying. "Aren't you lonely?" he murmured, noticing Arthur stiffen perceptibly at that.

"Alfred, for goodness sake—"

"I am," he said, grabbing Arthur's shoulder as he turned away. The man struggled for a moment before scowling at the ground. "Even with lots of people, I get really lonely."

"It's not much better here," Arthur muttered.

"Maybe we can be friends," Alfred said, offering a smile when Arthur's head shot up to stare incredulously at him. "Then neither of us would be that lonely."

"We're strangers!" Arthur exclaimed, looking somewhat desperate, before shaking his head, twisting out of Alfred's grasp. "I could kill you," he murmured coldly, voice void of all feeling, eyes closed. "It would be so easy," he whispered, suddenly right in front of Alfred. He didn't move his arms, but suddenly Alfred felt as if there were hands around his throat. He gasped, eyes widening, and he gazed down in horror as he tried and failed to inhale. "You could be dead in a second…"

And then the hands were gone. Alfred staggered back, collapsing against a tree, and felt his throat as he gasped.

"Get out," he whispered, finally meeting Alfred's gaze, and he faltered and Alfred frowned. The man's voice might be collected and impassive, but his eyes told another story. "I don't want you here."

"You are lonely," Alfred said.

Arthur glared furiously, clenching his fists and gritting his teeth. "I said get _out_," he hissed, narrowing his eyes.

"You're pushing me away, but why?" he asked.

"Bloody hell, Alfred, you're a fucking teenager. Stop trying to analyse a freak of a stranger you just met!"

"You're a teenager too!" he argued. "In the village, I have no friends. They call me _Star_, for fuck sake. They make me do reckless shit and they wouldn't give a damn if I died. So why can't I stay?"

Arthur bristled again before he breathed in calmly, eyes shutting as his demeanour altered, now appearing more composed and foreign than before. "Nobody forces you into anything, Alfred," he murmured, "you choose to do irresponsible things yourself." Alfred wanted to argue, but managed to hold his tongue. "If you don't care for them at all, why are you so angry? It seems you resent them, but you can't harbour resentment if someone has done nothing to you. Perhaps it's time for you to grow up and confront them instead of holding onto a grudge and refusing to forgive people who don't know why they should apologise."

Alfred frowned, blinking in astonishment as a wave of furious heat washed over him and rage coiled in his stomach like a spring about to uncoil.

Emerald eyes fluttered open and a small smile quirked at Arthur's lips. "What's wrong with the name Star?" he asked softly. "We're all made of stardust, Alfred. Every atom in your body spurns from a star that exploded. Different stars in different parts of you." He tilted his head and raised his brows. "Perhaps Free Star would suit you better," he suggested, and then smirked challengingly, "if you ever manage to free yourself from yourself."

Alfred blinked, the unfurling rage that was bubbling up inside of him suddenly evaporating. He stared at Arthur, shocked and baffled and contemplative, and then frowned again. "From myself…? It's them I need to be free of."

"If you run from the problems you created in your head, they'll follow you wherever you go." He smiled again, but it didn't quite meet his eyes. "Perhaps I shall see you again someday, Alfred," he said, and stepped back, disappearing into the shadows as purple and blue wisps drifted around him, vanishing before they reached Alfred.

**x.**

Glowing droplets of rain fell from the grey sky, washing away the blood on his face, as he stumbled through a forest path covered in vines and roses and stray clocks. "Arthur," he whispered lowly, but that was enough; a spiral of dark colours ruptured the space before him, and a cloaked figure with bright eyes emerged, the rain disguising the tears on the man's face but not the misery in his eyes.

"Alfred," he murmured, gingerly touching the man's cut cheek, and shook his head. "You idiot."

"It's been a while," Alfred said with an apologetic grin, slightly weak but only physically. He placed his hand over Arthur's and his grin softened into a smile as Arthur's breath hitched. "I'm sorry it took me so long to stop running."

Arthur's eyes darted around, scrutinising Alfred and drinking in the droplets of blood mingling with the rain, the gentle smile and deep blue eyes that seemed to fill the dark forest with colour. He shook his head, unable to collect himself, and wrapped his arms around Alfred's shoulders, drawing him closer. "Alfred, you idiot," he repeated.

If it wasn't night, he was sure that there would be a rainbow. As it was, in consolation, moon shadows filtered through the leaves and danced across the land, and stars shone brightly in the sky.

**x.**

Books were strewn about the floor, the royal blue carpet full of stars and planets that reflected the sky covered in open pages of parchment and ink splattered across them. After all this time, he still found it almost incomprehensible, the spells written in an ancient language he had been trying to learn for years still meaning little to him. He wandered through the flood of books until he reached his love, slipping his arms around his queen's waist and delighting in the small surprised sound that escaped his lips.

Arthur looked up at him, prepared to admonish him for interrupting him, only to be silenced with a kiss, their lips locking together like puzzle pieces. After a moment of reluctance, he relaxed into it, parting his lips and inviting Alfred in, lifting a hand to cup Alfred's cheek and tilting his own head to grant easier access. A breathy sigh of contentment left him when they parted, and he leaned upwards slightly as they did, before leaning his head on Alfred's shoulder and frowning up at him playfully.

_in spite of everything  
>which breathes and moves, since Doom<em>

_(with white longest hands_

_neatening each crease)_

_will smooth entirely our minds _

—_before leaving my room_

_i turn,and(stooping_

_through the morning)kiss_

_this pillow,dear_

_where our heads lived and were._

"Happy anniversary, Arthur," he whispered into his lover's messy hair, drawing his queen towards him and closing his eyes.

"And to you, Alfred," he said softly, pressing a chaste kiss against the man's neck, "who is both my king and my knight."

Alfred grinned brightly, hidden in Arthur's hair, and added, "And a jester too. When I succeed in making you laugh."

"Hm," Arthur hummed with a small smile of his own. "And I am proud of you, my love," he said, moving to thread his fingers through Alfred's, "for accomplishing all that you have done. You truly are a free star."

"And you're the shooting star I wished upon."

"Don't try to be poetic, Alfred."

**x.**

**Today's prompt is literature.**

**This might be a bit confusing. The first segment is their first meeting, the second is after Alfred has confronted the people in his life and sorted himself out, and the third is after they become king and queen of Spades. It's kind of rushed and shows that. These time limits for this event aren't good for me; I take ages to do anything. Sorry if it doesn't live up to expectations.**

**This story includes references to**** C. S. Lewis in the exchange between Alfred and Arthur at first. It's supposed to be when Alfred realises he doesn't want to be stuck in a place where the only way to feel is by having cheap thrills with people he dislikes and Arthur essentially tells him he can make his own decisions, even if he gets all asdfghjkl when Alfred wants to stay with him. Jeez, Arthur, this is why you'll never be like Gandalf.**

**There's also an elusion to Victor Hugo when Arthur says, "Great perils have this beauty…" Perhaps ironically, Hugo was French. Pahaha. Some of his work reminds me of Arthur though, such as:**

_**Alas! Turning an envious eye towards the past,  
>inconsolable by anything on earth,<br>I keep looking at that moment of my life  
>when I saw her open her wings and fly away!<strong>_

_**I will see that instant until I die,  
>that instant—too much for tears!<br>when I cried out: 'The child that I had just now-  
>what! I don't have her any more!'<strong>_

**I could analyse since that's essentially the basis of my English class, but I'll try to refrain from having miles of author's notes consisting of an essay.**

**The last poem near the end, in a very recognisable style, is E. E. Cummings's **_**in spite of everything**_**. I felt it was fitting for this story for obvious reasons.**

**Thank you for reading. (: The stardust fact is true, by the way. You're all stars! ;)**

**This one's dedicated to Sierra. (:**


	8. heart stitches

**h e a r t**

**s t i t c h e s**

(or rather, the absence of)

**x.**

'_what is uttered from the heart alone_

_will win the hearts of others…_'

– Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

**x.**

[_Dearest _is scribbled out.] Alfred,

Dare I hope that this letter will not arrive terribly late? I am sure that, upon receiving this, you will find the date to be many days late. It seems everything trails on for ostensibly forever, but perhaps that is merely due to how it feels as if I have spent an eternity in this bleeding war. It's not only figurative language I use.

I assume you are aware of where Romania's loyalties presently lie. I became rather hopeful after the RAF raids, and then news of his alignment comes in. Mers-el-Kebir did not go nearly as well as I had hoped. Not that I had much hope in the first place. Sometimes it is good to be cynical; disappointment isn't as prominent and your heart doesn't sink and lower as it's already drowned in pessimism. I suppose I shouldn't be quite so negative after Roosevelt's idealistic speech. I'm sure you agree with his views. [_I would appreciate_—] [_I need hel_—] [_I'm_]

I have been at home for a while now. For a short while, I have been told I mustn't return to the battlefield; it is hardly any safer in London, though. I cannot presently recall what it sounded like without air raids so frequently, but I have grown accustomed to the darkness of the underground shelters and the debris and smoke lingering in the grey skies.

[_Are the skies blue there, Alfred? Yours were always clear_. Droplets of ink. Hesitation.]

As I have not been actively engaged in battle, I have found time to knit several things. I daresay it is quite the hobby, if only because it allows my thoughts to stray, if only for a short time. Enclosed, you will find a scarf. It is not a gift, you fool – I only made it as I've nothing better to do than collect corpses from the street. Besides, it would be detrimental to me if you were to get sick. [_I'm cold_.]

I must finish this letter now; the paper is rationed and I am running out. Be safe, Alfred. [_Please_.]

Arthur.

**x.**

[_Dear_] Alfred,

[_It hurts_.] The last raid was the same as the previous ones, so I shan't complain. You have seen what state I have been in before. I am much the same, but I shall keep calm and carry on. [_What else am I good for but maintaining a stiff upper lip when everything is falling apart_] I am not too bad, however, so you needn't worry. [_I doubt you would anyway, not about me_.] I feel rather bad for the doctors and nursemaids – they're being run ragged by it all. A number of your soldiers are here. They are safe, do not fear. None of them are quite like you, you incorrigible fool. [_They make me long for y_—]

I'm fairly intoxicated at present, which is why a lot of things have been crossed out in this letter. I wonder if you will be able to visit again soon. I could get a bourbon ready for you. [_Sometimes I almost order two and then I turn around and remember that you aren't here and suddenly I want two all to myself anyway and I'd drink myself into a coma if I had enough money._]

[_I miss_—] Merry Christmas, Alfred. Find enclosed gloves and socks I made. I tried to sew together your old ones that were practically burnt to cinders, but I had to add some patches since they were so worn. I hope you do not mind the colourful _A. J. _inscribed in the centre. [_It seems _my_ present is more nations joining the Axis Powers. I'm tired of_—] [_Please hel_]

Arthur.

**x.**

[_Dea_] Dear Alfred,

Please let me know if you are fairing all right, Alfred. To think Kiku and I had had an alliance not too long ago, and now… this. [_Why does everyone I care about_—]

Your bomber jacket was damaged after the attack. I visited you. Don't be so surprised, you bloody yank, of course I'd visit. I was _worried_, all right? I have lost the will to deny it right now since I was so bleeding _scared_ for you.

I fixed it though. It's as good as ever, just with more stitches. I suppose it is reminiscent of scars. Torn bodies, worn possessions. [_I only wish you had never had to be involved in any battles or wars but_—]

I am proud of you, Alfred. I won't say it often so don't anticipate it and don't let it inflate your insatiable ego even further. But… you are strong. So stay that way, or I shall never forgive you.

Take care of yourself.

Arthur.

**x.**

"Take this kiss," gasped Alfred, lips brushing over Arthur's and he breathed in as Arthur exhaled shakily, "upon thy brow…" His lips drifted over Arthur's cut cheek to press against his forehead, and he pressed them against it, breathing in the scent of smoke and roses, and then pulled away. He gazed down into Arthur's dazed emerald eyes and offered a weak smile, grasping the man's hand and feeling his heart flutter when Arthur, after a moment of hesitation, threaded their fingers together. "And," he murmured gently, "in parting from you now, thus much let me avow – you are not wrong, who deem that my days have been a dream."

He fell, like a swooping raven, and pressed his lips against Arthur's exposed neck, nipping at it and then licking it, the salty tang of sweat exuding from his flesh lingering on Alfred's tongue, and then their lips locked together. Arthur's free hand rose to entangle itself in Alfred's golden hair, clutching onto him so tightly he was afraid he would vanish in a moment; Alfred held onto Arthur with a gentle reverence as if he felt he could break the trembling man beneath him so easily.

"Yet," he breathed amidst heated kisses, "if hope has flown away in a night, or in a day, in a vision, or in none, is it therefore the less gone?" He bit Arthur's lip and drew back languidly, a chaste peck set upon Arthur's bruised lips as he pulled away again, staring down at the flushed man with an isolated frown and anguished eyes. "All that we see or seem," he murmured wearily, eyes falling shut, "is a dream… within a dream."

"O God," whispered Arthur, eyes burning but no tears rising to them, "can I not grasp  
>them with a tighter clasp?" He squeezed Alfred's hand tightly, his own shaking with the pressure. "O God… Can I not save one from the pitiless wave?" His hand in Alfred's hair fell to cup his cheek, and he offered a forlorn smile with fondness in his eyes, the likes of which tugged at Alfred's heartstrings. "Can I not save you, Alfred?" he breathed, voice practically a sigh. He collapsed against the bed and closed his eyes. <p>

Alfred's features contorted into a pained frown and he imitated the rueful noise, lowering himself to lie beside Arthur, hands still intertwined between them. "You can save me," he murmured, lifting Arthur's hand to kiss the bandages that covered his knuckles, a brief surge of hot fury rushing through him at the sight of bloodstained bandages, "as much as I… can save you."

Arthur's eyes didn't open, and for a moment Alfred believed him to be asleep. Finally, after a few silent moments, a single tear fell from Arthur's closed eyes. Alfred felt the man's hand tremble in his grasp, and squeezed it, pulling the quilt they had sewn together over their barely clothed bodies.

_Is all that we see or seem  
>but a dream within a dream?<em>

**x.**

**Today's theme is sewing. Naturally, for such a simple prompt with the potentiality for being very endearing, I take a depressing route because I'm a life ruiner. I ruin lives. For the title of **_**heart stitches**_**, it seems this tears apart more than puts together. This is why I'll never write headlines.**

**The letters in the beginning are, evidently, all Arthur's. Alfred had responded to all of them. I didn't include them—not purely because I'm lazy; I've actually written them—but its rhythm seemed better without. This is supposed to reflect the corruption of society and decay of relationships during times of adversity, but I probably didn't portray that very well. This is why I'm not a published author. I am shit. :|**

**At the end, when there was actual dialogue and literate story, Alfred and Arthur are reciting Edgar Allan Poe's **_**A Dream Within A Dream**_**, the original **_**Inception**_**. Well, not really, but it's a bloody brilliant poem. What would you expect from him? In any case, if you perceive this poem in a different way than I do, that's all right. (: This is merely my personal discernment of it.**

**Perhaps the next one I write won't be as despondent as this. Pff… Oh, well. While this is dull and depressing, it isn't nearly as haphazard as the previous one. XD Originally, I was going to write a **_**Harry Potter**_** crossover for the Literature prompt, but I didn't give myself enough time and now I am ashamed. lol.**

**Anyway, thank you for reading. (:**


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